<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Wayfarer by hollowbirds (torturousthings)</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23566876">Wayfarer</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds'>hollowbirds (torturousthings)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>is it true? [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Panic! at the Disco</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Casual Affair, M/M, Seattle, That Breaks Your Heart Everytime You Watch It But You Can't Stop Watching It, You Know That One Accursed Performance, brief mention of dallon, yeah that one</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:22:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,008</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23566876</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>January 14, 2014. </p><p>This is the first night of tour. This is the moment to bring new songs to life and lay old memories to rest. </p><p>But when he's concerned, nothing ever goes as planned. Brendon should know that by now.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>is it true? [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1168853</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Wayfarer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>damn this really is my first time posting in 2020 huh? well. here we are. i have been sitting on this for a while, and it has finally deigned reveal itself to me in its full form. i hope you enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re gonna be okay?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nod. Yeah, I’m going to be fine. This isn’t the first time we’re playing this city without them. It went well last time. I made sure not to think about anything last time. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And, you know, I get through most of the set okay. We’ve rehearsed this again and again for the past few weeks, so it runs smoothly just like it’s supposed to. I aim for the song I wrote for Sarah, for us. If I get to that one, it’ll all be alright. This is a test of my resilience, this is me proving to myself that we’re good now. That I’ve moved on, that he’s history. Putting this song on the set list was a challenge, but a necessary one. This is a message; the first time this song is played will be the last time I let him commandeer my thoughts like he has for the past five years. This is the end. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Looks innocent enough, doesn’t it? </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My heart lurches when the Boys Beware audio plays, and it all falls apart; all my pathetic efforts are thrown out the window, never to be seen again. Almost as though I wasn’t expecting it. It’s stupid, I’ve been bracing myself for this. I thought it’d be easier. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I know the lyrics, but getting through them is laborious, as if the words refused to cooperate. They fall from my mouth and I may be off-key, I don’t know. I don’t care. The only way out is through, and I cross myself as I sing that line about sinners and lovers. Everything about him used to be holy, when he stood by my side. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I thought I was so clever, writing this song, but catharsis has its price. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hush. Don’t you say a word. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The backing vocals, the echoes, they haunt me. They hang around after I’ve pulled the mic away from my lips, they bounce around my head like they’ll stay there forever, ricocheting on my skull again and again until I can’t take it anymore. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dallon’s mic is turned up too loud, but I don’t find the energy to stray from the song to signal the techs. His harmonies leave me unstable throughout the second verse. I run my hand over my face, I make sure that sweat is the only thing sticking to my skin. I pray that the stage lights behind me conceal the pain.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We were here, time and time again. The first when we were just kids, still touring in a van with dreams overflowing from our guitar cases. He would paint his face and mine, too. His hands were gentle on my skin in a way I didn’t know was possible, but he stood there, concentration all over his features, making sure that every line was as crisp as it could be even though he knew I would sweat it away before the end of the night. He cared. He was so beautiful when he cared, and terrifyingly gorgeous when he didn’t – and I found that out soon enough. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He wasn’t one to get mad, not in the way that is expected of us. The shouting, the storming out, the curses; those weren’t him. His anger was quiet and his eyes were bright, and out of his mouth would pour biting remarks that I never knew what to respond to. But it was okay, then. It wasn’t about me; I was the good guy, always, the one who was there to listen and to advise, to hold him when he needed to be held. I was on the right side of history then, a hand on his shoulder as some walked out of his life. He had sought steadiness and found it in the form of a cheap electric guitar and three high school students. We were his home, and I would have given anything for that feeling to never go away. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We came back, of course. It was our job now. But when we sang and smiled atop the Space Needle, when his hair used to fall into his eyes and I changed his words to fit us, it was unexplainable. This city was becoming ours, it was ours. He had claimed it years ago, making a promise he was never going to keep. His hands had grown hungrier and his mouth bolder, but he was troubled. His eyes would stray and he’d lose those words he used to hold so dear. A fire had gone out within him, and no one knew why. And it was here that I understood. With an outpouring of words he broke us, and it turned out too painful to mend, no matter how hard we tried. The city was turning to wasteland and I watched it topple, helpless. He had found another place to call home, and the vows of lions on beaches and his hand in mine vanished, just like that. Here I found out  that the flip side of history was so desperately empty. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And now I’ve come back and found nothing but memories, some stinging more than others. With this song, I am digging up the pain of his words, the beauty of his eyes and the mark he has left on me, one will stay here till the rest of time. All of it, in four minutes. Talk about a masochistic achievement. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The cold, blue lights drag me back to the stage and I finish the song. My eyes burn and I wish I was anywhere but here. There was never any mending this. I know that. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But I can’t walk offstage, I can’t call anything off. This is show business, and it’s in our nature to carry on. There is no space, no time for anger or bitterness. We go too fast for that. But despite the blur of lights and the buzzing in my earpiece, I wonder where he is, right this instant. And if by some sort of miracle he’s thinking of me, too. I wonder if he ever does. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jhXDQBZNdIE">That Performance</a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>